Without Flinching
by Aisukuri-Mu Studio
Summary: .:C:. Shortly after Edward gains his State Alchemist title, he's already run into trouble. It's not even been half of a year yet, and already, terror has arrived on Mustang's desk, in the form of an old walkie-talkie, and a note, saying, "You have 24 hours." There's a new threat in the East, and apparently, he wants to play a game. With all of them.
1. Chapter 1: 24 Hours

This was only the first of many "horrors" the mysterious Odi Sanguis promised.

And yet, it nearly broke them.

It began with something simple. Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye entered the Colonel's office, carrying the morning's mail and more papers that he would have to read over, sign, and if necessary, make amendments to.

Everything was perfectly ordinary, down to the request for coffee, the polite talk of the weather, and the subtle flirting that always made the Lieutenant's mouth twitch even as her hand flittered toward her holster semi-threateningly.

She wouldn't shoot the Colonel, she told herself. Not really.

It was just like every other morning.

But then the Colonel, while in the midst of opening a small parcel that had been part of his mail today, froze—and when he didn't answer her inquisitive call of, "Sir?" she was highly tempted to simply fire a warning shot above his head to get his attention once again.

Instead, she resorted to sighing, straightening up, and stomping with her foot to jerk him from his stupor. "Sir, is there a problem?"

Mustang blinked back to awareness and frowned, but still refrained from looking at his most loyal subordinate. He pressed his lips into an uncertain line, and muttered a very quiet, "Maybe…" before reaching in the small box to pull out the cargo.

It was a walkie-talkie. Much like the older, military model that was outdated now by radios that could expand across long distances and even the entire country. But there was also a small a note, taped to the front of it, with a tiny print etched onto the postcard surface, looking harmless, despite the message it boded.

_You have 24 hours._

Hawkeye didn't resist the urge, this time. She drew her gun, and held it in her hand, a semblance of comfort when her nerves suddenly jumped and alarm spread through her system. _A threat_, her subconscious recognized the instant her body did. "Sir, step away from that desk, and head towards the other side of the room. Let me examine it."

But Mustang—stupid, headstrong, intelligent—Colonel Mustang ignored her, and tore off the note from the walkie-talkie's face. "At ease," he dismissed. "It's not poisonous."

"How do you know? The surface of it could be—"

"—Hawkeye." And there was Mustang's smirk, the ever-calm, ever-placating sense of 'I know what I'm doing, and although I appreciate your fervor, at this moment, it's pointless.' As if to remind her, too, he waved his gloved hands at her. "My hands are protected. Or do you forget I make a habit of wearing these?"

Hawkeye pressed her lips into a thin, disapproving line, although that didn't make her holster her gun any faster. Slowly, and cautiously, she kept her hand on its handle, watching her commanding officer as he turned the walkie-talkie on and listened.

Nothing.

At least, nothing yet.

Mustang gave one look at his Lieutenant, who watched him carefully and blankly, giving a small nod, before he leaned forward and spoke into the walkie-talkie, holding down the "Talk" button as he did so.

"Hello?"

He waited.

There was nothing, nothing but crackling on the other end—something typical of the older, outdated walkie-talkie models; honestly, who even had these anymore?—but then he heard it, a voice that he expected to hear on the other end least of all.

"…Colonel…?"

Something like fear froze his blood in his veins, although he couldn't confirm why. He yelled the first thing he could think of into the walkie-talkie, somehow hoping he was wrong about the entire circumstance, "Fullmetal? What are you doing? Is this some kind of joke? This better not be another one of your silly pranks, I have work to do—"

"—What, you think this is a prank? Are you serious?"

But then there was another voice, _with _the Fullmetal Alchemist's, in the background, that Roy Mustang also instantly recognized. Yet, it sounded so odd…so heavy, full and echoing—so much louder and enveloping than before.

"He probably doesn't know, Brother! Quick—hold down the button! Colonel! You've got to help us—"

"—are you kidding, Al? I'm not asking that loser for anything—"

"—Brother, even you have to admit, we can't get out of this. We only have so much time—"

But then the voices cut out, most likely because Ed, who was the one, Roy could imagine, holding the other walkie-talkie, simply didn't want the Colonel to hear their arguing.

He decided to intervene before his patience ran out.

"Look, Fullmetal. I haven't a clue what's going on, and at the moment, neither do I care. All I received this morning was a package with this old walkie-talkie in it, and a note claiming there's only twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours until what, would you care to explain?"

Stony silence.

Finally, however, the brat responded. "Um…that's…probably in reference to how long I have left."

Dark eyebrows furrowed in confusion, something like frustration beginning to boil in the pit of his stomach, even though he knew could feel that icy fear once again, still crawling through his limbs. "What do you _mean _how long you have left?"

There was a sigh on the other end—perhaps Fullmetal's—before Alphonse's voice came through, still much more loud and echoing than Mustang remembered. "It's bad, Colonel. Brother doesn't remember how it happened, because he was knocked unconscious, but…" and something like a scared sob broke through, running right through the Colonel's chest like it a spear. "But I saw everything, and…and I _let them do it…"_

He was on his feet before he even knew what he was doing. Hawkeye was already out the door, asking Feury if he could trace the signals of an old walkie-talkie system to the other set, even as he asked his next question, "How bad is it? Is Fullmetal injured? Are you all right?"

"Eh, besides a nasty bump on my head, I'm fine." Edward's voice was all calm and laidback—at least, it would have sounded that way to a stranger.

Colonel Mustang, even though only having known the boy for a little over a year (if you began from the moment he met the kid as a twice-amputee slumped in a wheelchair with fire in his eyes), still knew the traces of uncertainty and fear in the 12-year-old's voice, and knew enough that if Edward was shaken, something must have been terribly _wrong._

"Edward, hand Alphonse the walkie-talkie. I need to know everything."

There was an awkward silence as Mustang strode through the doorway to the outer office, where all the rest of his team gazed at him with confusion and alarm.

"Colonel, what's going on?" Havoc voiced the question for them all, but Roy held up his hand for silence, ear craned to hear the response.

But it was Edward who answered, his voice unusually small and uncertain as it drifted through the speakers of the handheld device.

"Um…I would love to, but I can't. I'm…kind of stuck inside him right now."

"Stuck? How the he—"

"—we're underground. Six feet, Colonel."

_Six feet, Colonel._

The walkie-talkie dropped from Roy's shocked fingers, slipping innocently through and by and down to the floor, where it hit and bounced off the carpet, before falling and turning in its bounce to resume the pattern until it rested, still and harmless, the speakers facing the ceiling.

Edward didn't say it, but the fear and the message was as blatant as day.

_We're buried alive._

And _Alphonse _was his _coffin_.

Oh, God save the man who would have to face the six faces, varying between pasty-white shock and red-hot brittle anger that were staring at the walkie-talkie then, so ready and vengeful to rescue what was theirs.

* * *

**Crystal's Notes: **So...consider this an experiment. I know I haven't done well updating my multi-chaptered fics as of late (coughPoorHetaliacoughcough), but I thought I might as well try pumping out an idea that has been on the back burner of my brain for _forever._ And _hopefully_, it'll be well-recieved and I'll get in the habit of writing again and may even get some inspiration to kick some of my old works back to life.

Haha!

...maybe.

I have to give credit where credit is due, though. I do not own the characters of Fullmetal Alchemist (no matter how much I wish I did); they belong to wonderful Hiromou Arakawa. I also got this idea largely from another fanfic I read (this one, TMNT-fandom) and couldn't help but hang on to the snippet of brilliance, hoping that I might find another fandom to throw it into and have fun with.

And then the Fullmetal Alchemist fell into my lap and I thought, "Oh! I have the PERFECT victim, now!"

So sorry, Edward. (But not really.)

If you're curious about the original story, it is here, entitled "Suffered to Slumber" by the entirely-gifted devirnis: www .fanfiction s /644 5554/1 /Suffered _to_ Slumber


	2. Chapter 2: Apprehended

"You better start explaining, Fullmetal." Roy's patience was short, even shorter now that there was a time limit.

_24 hours._

But what did that mean? Did that mean 24 hours since he opened the parcel? 24 hours since Ed and Al had been buried? 24 hours since their unknown adversary mailed him the package? If it was any one of those factors—then how were they supposed to know how many hours they had left?

It might have been ridiculous, but the idea crawled across Mustang's mind before he could stop it.

_Is he…watching us?_

He cast a quick, fleeting and discreet glance over his shoulder and out the window into the morning light over hot, sweltering East City. Curse it all—despite the fluttering panic inside him, it seemed the world was still turning on, beautiful and mundane as always. No one had any idea what was going on inside this office, what the flurry was about, what his team was frantically hooking up wires and arguing about.

And he suddenly realized, with cold certainty, that they couldn't _let _anyone else know.

After all, who was to say that the person behind this wasn't outside their door, walking down the same hallways he and his men did every day? Who was to say they hadn't taken on a disguise and was watching them from the streets below, grinning and silent. Yet guilty.

Short-tempered and angry at the silence, the Colonel barked into the walkie-talkie. He needed to know _more. _And _now. _"Fullmetal—"

"—okay, okay. Geez! Can't be trying to conserve my air, here, if you're making me talk all the time."

"Then, Brother, let _me _do the talking. Save your breath!"

"Don't start that, Al—"

Mustang felt the walkie-talkie tugged from his grip, and jerked instinctively at the loss, but upon seeing it was Hawkeye, froze and watched as she lifted it to her lips calmly and ordered. "Edward Elric."

Silence. Somehow hilarious and awkward at the same time, wasting time that could be spent finding information, and yet giving them all a glorious moment to slow down and just take stock of the situation.

"…yes?"

Mustang fought to hold back the laughing smirk that stretched across his features at the timid, meek response the boy genius gave, so unlike his normal, brash and loud behavior. Hawkeye continued. "You will listen to your brother, and you will stop talking. Keep your breathing shallow, and refrain from letting your heart beat any faster than normal. Is that understood?"

"Um…sure…"

"Now, hold down the button and let Alphonse tell everything from the beginning."

God bless Lieutenant Hawkeye—the only one of them who could truly manage the brothers. Although how she had such an intimidating presence right now over them, when she clearly couldn't shoot through six feet of soil and didn't even know their location, was lost to Mustang, it didn't matter.

Alphonse's voice came over the walkie-talkie a minute later, sounding very nervous and scared.

"Well, you know that new mission you gave Brother, Colonel? It…was a set-up. We were apprehended before we even got to the Train Station…"

* * *

_It had been quick and easy. Alphonse would realize with a start and realization later, that it was too easy—planned, and put into motion. A trap. Something that he had always heard about, something he knew they were supposed to always be wary of, especially while working on a military assignment, but something that, after their five months of duty, they hadn't experienced yet. So, they hadn't been prepared for it. Hadn't even been keeping their eyes open._

_It was just another mission, to another city just an hour's train ride away from Central, that they could wrap up in a jiffy to begin looking for clues on the Philosopher's Stone._

_Instead, the minute they were alone, sitting on a bench and waiting for the "All Aboard," a gun had been placed to Fullmetal's back, and the commands were given quietly, and slowly, murmured in hushed, dark caution._

"_Don't give any sign that something is wrong. Stand up, and walk where I push you, and I'll let you live."_

_Alphonse didn't dare move. Edward had glowered, and it was evident—so blatantly so, with the defiant way he held his shoulders and stiff back—that obeying their would-be-captor was the last thing on his mind._

_But there was a click as the hammer was pulled back, and with dread, Alphonse heard the voice threaten them even more._

"_Don't think you're the only one a gun is aimed at, boy. There are several innocent people here who I know would hate to not make it back home today. You don't want to be the reason they don't, do you?"_

_No. Dang it, of course not. _

_Alphonse tried to be discreet, looking around to see where the other shooters were, see if perhaps, if he could locate them, they could remove the danger quickly and swiftly with a little nicely-placed alchemy. But there was none that he could see. So then, was it a lie? A bluff? To make them do what they wanted? Or were these guys just that good?_

_Edward huffed, standing up slowly. A frown traced his features as he stretched, nonchalantly reaching down for his suitcase as he asked, "Okay. But if I come with you, no one gets hurt?"_

_There was a definite grin in the other man's voice. "No one gets hurt. Not even your metal friend."_

_Friend._

Friend.

_Alphonse saw the idea in his brother's mind form, but before he could stop him, the words were tumbling out of that mouth, perfectly and purposefully confused. "Friend? Who, this guy? You're serious, right? I just met him a minute ago—never seen him before in my life."_

_Alphonse felt his non-existent heart twitch with pain, but at the same time, frustrated understanding. If they let Alphonse go, he could report back to the Colonel. Then it would be easy—oh, so easy, then—to mount a rescue mission and find his brother. Everything would be fine in a matter of moments. It really was, when he thought about it, a good plan._

_But it was hard to want to be separated from Edward in the first place._

_The voice, amused, chuckled. "Never seen him before, huh? Interesting. But I'm afraid I can't let him go, either. He's heard me—haven't you? And if he runs, well, I'm afraid the same penalty applies. Not only you die, kid, but so do several other people. Nobody wants that, right?"_

_Edward grit his teeth. Foiled. But that was fine. They'd get out of this easy—quick. "Just get this over with. Where are we going?"_

_The voice laughed again. "Right this way."_

_The gun nudged, digging into red fabric and a stiff back, and then they began to walk—down the stairs, across the train station plaza, and out the doors, into normal society. No one had given them a second glance; no one had seen the gun pressed to his brother's back, no one noticed the uncomfortably close distance their kidnapper was keeping to them._

_Alphonse tried to forget the way his hopes were crashed every time they passed an unsuspecting policeman._

* * *

"They took us to a house on one of the upper-class districts."

Roy held onto that piece of information greedily. "Did you catch a glimpse of the address?"

"I did!" There was pride in the younger boy's voice. "And I remember it, too! 1696 Bearburn Lane. Two-stories, brick walls, and red shutters." Instantly, Feury wrote that down, and Havoc grabbed the keys to one of the military cars, standing up and waiting for instructions from his commanding officer—but Roy simply held up his hand for patience as the conversation continued on the other line.

"Except for that weird blue one on the left side of the upstairs window," Edward added in. "Don't know why _that_ was there."

"It _was_ kind of strange, wasn't it?"

"Fullmetal, you're not supposed to be talking. Shut up," Roy barked into the walkie-talkie.

"You can't just tell me to—"

"—Brother, don't get excited! Your heart will speed up, and you'll use more air!"

Of all people, Roy Mustang groaned inwardly—of all people, Edward was probably the one to use air the fastest and in largest quantities. From an enemy's point of view, the perfect person to bury alive. "Alphonse is right," the Colonel continued, and couldn't help the grin that slid onto his face as he added, "You're only killing yourself if you get angry at me."

Hawkeye, exasperated, grabbed the walkie-talkie from him, covering the mouth of it as she scolded, "Honestly, sir, you're killing him as well if you keep antagonizing him."

…well, there was that.

Havoc grabbed Mustang's attention before he could respond, standing at the ready and waving a hand of keys. "Should we go, Chief?"

Mustang frowned, thinking for a moment. A glance at the clock on the wall revealed that it had been at least fifteen minutes so far. If they were lucky, then at the rate things were going, they'd have the two Elrics back in an hour or two.

If they were extremely lucky.

But the quicker, the better. Something told him there was something providing more air for Edward down there anyway. After all, someone buried alive, if they remained calm, might have around four hours to live before they began to suffocate. The note clearly said he and his team had 24 hours to find Edward—an angry, nagging voice in the back of his head wondered who would do this to them, anyway, and why—so that would mean…somehow, someone was keeping Edward alive on more air.

Somehow.

...a_lchemy?_

"Sir?"

Havoc's voice interrupted his train of thought, but snapping back into reality, Mustang nodded. "Take Breda and Falman with you. Be careful. See if whoever did this is still there. If not, look for clues regarding where they may have buried the Elrics."

Nodding, the three wasted no time in leaving, gathering their guns, grabbing their coats and walking out the door at a brisk, excited pace.

Alphonse's voice came back over the walkie-talkie in Hawkeye's hands, timid and nervous.

"Um…there's a few more things you should know, Colonel."

Hawkeye responded, holding the instrument close to her mouth, as if somehow, the closer she was to the device, the closer she was to the brothers—and the more she could provide comfort. She always did have a soft spot for those boys, Mustang reflected. "What is it, Alphonse?"

There was an agitated sigh on the other end before the younger brother spoke—most likely, whatever Al wanted to say, Edward desperately wanted him _not _to. But it seemed that the younger one won the argument, because his voice came out hurriedly and strongly. "I don't know who buried us, and I don't know where. I mean, everyone had their faces covered with ski-masks, except for their leader, who I've never seen before in my life. I don't know where they buried us, either, because they really did put us in a co—a box, I mean. They put us in it before we even left the house. There's only me and Brother in here, and I can't see anything."

A nervous pause, and then the little brother continued. "They took my hands and feet, so I couldn't draw an array. They also…took Brother's automail. Both his arm and leg, so he can't do alchemy, either. We…we can't get ourselves out. We—we've _tried…"_

Hawkeye was speaking before the boy could even continue. "It's all right, Alphonse. _We'll_ get you out. Don't worry about it."

"I know. I _know_ you will, but…" There was a hitch, a falter. Edward must have let go of the talk button, because for a moment, there was an uncomfortable silence in the office. Feury, Hawkeye and Mustang waited, holding their breaths and waiting.

Finally, there was a burst of a shout from the walkie-talkie—so loud and shocking that the three jumped in surprise.

"—I _need _to tell them, Brother! You can't just keep this from them—!"

"—I'm holding down the button, you idiot! You win! Fine! Whatever! I'm not even going to be using it anyway, so what does it matter!"

Panting. Probably from both brothers, but the more Mustang heard the heavy, frustrated breathing, the more he worried they were using air that Fullmetal simply couldn't afford to waste.

But before he could move forward to bark a command into the walkie-talkie, Alphonse was talking, hurriedly, frantically, and with a large amount of quivering fear in his voice. _An 11-year-old shouldn't have to face this,_ the pang in Mustang's heart voiced. "They left Brother with another alternative, Colonel. Another way to get out of here."

"What is it?" Hawkeye asked, trepidation lining her voice.

"A gun. And there's only one bullet."

Silence.

Then, for some reason—at that—Mustang found himself laughing. Laughing, brilliantly, mockingly, hardly, until both Hawkeye and Feury were gazing at him with mixing variations of concern and fear, as well as discomfort.

"Sir…?" Hawkeye asked, but he took the remaining step forward and swiped the walkie-talkie from her without responding, choosing to say instead into the device, "You'll have to forgive me, Fullmetal, but I find that utterly hilarious. For as much as these crooks seem to know about you and your brother, they don't know the most important thing, do they?"

There was something akin to smugness in the boy's voice as Edward responded. "Nope. Apparently not."

Mustang smirked. "Well, their mistake. I'll be seeing you in a few hours, then, Edward. Count on it."

Relief was evident in Alphonse's voice. "Good. Be careful, Colonel."

"And I've still got my pocket watch, Mustang," Ed's voice came through, still smug. "So I'll be holding you to that."

_Don't fail me, now._

Mustang nodded, tossing Hawkeye the walkie-talkie. _I won't._ "Find out more from Alphonse about the kidnappers. The leader wasn't wearing a ski-mask, so get a description of him, and we'll run a BOLO; also, just because they were in a box while they were being transported to their location, doesn't mean that they weren't aware of how long it took to get there. Find out as much as you can. I'll get a map, so we can create a radius of where they would be."

But even as he turned and headed towards his office to grab one, he heard Hawkeye reiterate her previous, "Sir!", but with much more urgency. Briefly, he turned back to her, eyebrow raised and poised as she asked quietly, "What did you mean, when you said 'the most important thing'? What is it their kidnapper doesn't know?"

Another smirk played with Mustang's features. "C'mon, don't play dumb. You know it, too, Riza."

But when she only gazed at him blankly, eyebrows furrowed, he sighed and turned around, muttering softly, "You know how strong the brothers' bond is. Edward would never leave Alphonse behind. Not so selfishly."

There—there it was. The light of realization dawned behind her dark amber eyes, and with his smirk still in place (if not a bit wider than it previously was), Mustang turned back to his door. "They underestimated them—and that gives us an advantage. Edward wouldn't kill himself, so that leaves us a full 24-hour window to save them."

_Not that we'll need it, of course._

* * *

**Crystal's Notes:**(tremble, tremble) (weep) You guys...are so kind. (sniff, sniff) I'm so unworthy of the generous reviews you all have given me! So I can only hope that this chapter will satisfy you, until things start to pick up in the next chapter, with all sorts of excitement and plot developments. Oooooo I've forgotten how fun writing fanfiction is! I have you all to thank for this wonderful joy! (weep) I'm not worthy...


	3. Chapter 3: Folly

_Only a thick, glass wall separated them. All else in their respective, small rooms was white, eerily similar to a cell. There were no windows, and only one door for each of their sides of the room._

_But the worst thing was, Brother refused to _talk.

_Stubbornly he sat, back against a white wall, arms crossed over his chest as he glared at the door opposite him, as if it would melt under his hot, fuming amber gaze. He didn't look at Alphonse, he didn't say a word._

_And Alphonse, no matter how hard he wanted to reach out, kept from speaking as well, because he knew what his brother was doing._

_Trying to prove that they didn't know each other._

_Time was lost. It swept by, unknowing and uncaring, and the longer Alphonse and Edward sat there, ignoring each other for the sake of each other's safety, the harder it was to not break down and sob and want to reach out for each other's comfort in this unknown situation. The silence was beginning to bear down on them, cold, heavy, desperate and frightening. _

_They had fought bad guys before. At least, a little bit. But they hadn't been kidnapped like this. Hadn't been forced to undergo this torture of being by each other's sides for so long, and suddenly forced to act like total strangers._

_But time still crept on._

_On._

_And on._

…_and Brother still didn't say a word. Still acted like he wasn't there._

_Alphonse was beginning to wish they would just forget this half-brained scheme. It wasn't working, anyway—they weren't convincing anyone. On a side-note, what were these guys trying to prove by this?_

_But Alphonse was too afraid to move. Too afraid that at any moment, their crazy idea would work and a man in a ski-mask would walk in, declare himself bored and let one of them go. If he spoke up now, would he ruin their chance of success?_

_So time still ticked by._

_Edward fell asleep at one point. _

_By the time he woke up, he had gone back to ignoring his brother. And time still dragged ever onward, cold and unthinking, tortuously heavy._

_Edward fell asleep again. (Did that mean two days had passed?)_

_They didn't bring Brother food. Alphonse supposed that was a slim hope that maybe a day hadn't passed since their captivity. Of course, that could also just mean they were starving him. But what for?_

_What did these guys want?_

…_and time still passed._

_It went by, slow, foggy, dreary like molasses. Alphonse didn't know what to do. Part of him, at times, forgot why they were being so quiet, forgot and just stared, because pretending they weren't there was easier right now than constantly remembering his brother was right beside him, and not talking to him._

_On._

_And on._

_Brother slept once more._

_He woke up._

_And yet ever onward, time inched by._

_And finally, when it slithered forward one more bit, it became too much. Bowing his armored head, Alphonse sighed, tightly and painfully. How long had it been? Two—three days? Of just _sitting here? _Like an idiot, staring at that door, hoping and praying that they would tire and let them go? He couldn't pretend anymore. Couldn't act like he didn't care._

Brother, I'm sorry…

_But just as he was about to speak, the door to his part of the room opened, and at the sudden sound, both Elrics looked up sharply, jumping._

_Alphonse could hardly breathe with excitement. _Did it…did it work? Did it actually _work? He couldn't believe it. Suddenly, it was all worth it—the silence, the heartbreaking closeness and fragile tension. It was all worth if it meant that they could get help, and get out of this and then just continue walking on with their lives._

_But the man who walked in was a complete stranger. Tall, bold features, short brown hair and a slight fuzz around his chin that wrapped around his mouth and under his nose as well. He had glasses on, too, and a highly intelligent look in his dark brown eyes as he gazed at them. _

_Or…was that insanity?_

_The stranger sighed, motioning to one of the ski-masked fellows behind him. "It seems that your acquaintance was right. You two are rather strangers, aren't you?"_

_There was something in that tone that caused warning bells to go off in the deep, dark, backwater parts of Alphonse's mind—but he couldn't concentrate on that right now, too distracted by the joy that leapt within his soul at the prospect that _they might just get out of this.

_He moved to stand, but before he could, the ski-masked man moved more briskly, lashing out with his foot and swiftly kicking off his helmet. In the span of a second, Alphonse felt his hand grab the back of the neck of his armor, shoving it to the wall as a knife—and he could feel that knife, so close to his one place of vulnerability, and scaring him more than he would ever care to admit—angled itself towards his blood seal._

_Edward snapped._

"_NO! Don't touch him!"_

_With fury, he spun towards the heavy glass wall separating, them pounding both automail and flesh against it as he shouted, frantic, angry…fearful?_

_The ski-masked man and the stranger with glasses froze, before the latter slowly, lazily grinned, as if he had been waiting for that reaction all along. "Ah…so you _do_ know each other." Angling his head slightly, if only to get a better view of Alphonse's insides, he muttered, "…and I wonder, _Edward Elric, _isn't that your own blood keeping his soul bound?"_

_The Fullmetal Alchemist froze as suddenly, their folly dawned on him. Fists clenched against glass, gold fringes outlining his face also brushing against its surface as he bowed his head._

"_I wonder why you even tried to fool us at all, when the evidence of your acquaintance with each other was so obviously there. Tell me, who's soul is this?"_

_Edward pressed his lips together once, a flicker of hesitation passing his face—the shadow of which Alphonse could barely make out, his vantage point split between helmet and a body of armor._

_The man sighed. "I'm afraid keeping secrets has done you no good. If you don't tell me—"_

"—_he's my brother." The voice came out as a snarl, and the golden head tipped upward, eyes blazing like raging, roaring fire as he hissed through the glass. "He's my little brother, and if you hurt him, I swear I'll make your life hell!"_

"_Hm." _

_That was all he said._

_The man walked forward towards the glass, squatting so he was down to Edward's eye-level from where he knelt on the floor in the other side of the room. And for a long, awkward moment, the brunet stranger just sat there, staring. Holding Edward's attention reverently as he looked at his eyes so much so, and so intently, that the alchemist didn't realize two more ski-masked men had snuck up behind him in his side of the room._

_Before they struck, knocking out his brother cold, Alphonse, even as he cried out a warning, could hear the stranger's voice, oddly lilting and…oddly, twistedly, fascinated? _

"_Such a fierce love…I was right; you two will be the most fun I've had in a while."_

* * *

"…I'm sorry, Brother. This is all my fault."

Edward blinked in the darkness. Hearing his younger brother's voice coming from all around him was something that, despite how long he'd already been encased inside, he was still getting used to. "How do you figure that? It's no one's fault, Al. Except for those guys who kidnapped us, of course."

"No, but—" There was an odd, hitching note in Alphonse's voice. Edward felt something inside of him—that internal older-sibling-protectiveness thing—cringe and yearn at the sadness there. "—I…I should have _done _something. I keep replaying what happened over and over again in my mind, and…and I can't help but think that maybe if I just didn't do what they said, and fought back, we could've escaped. I mean, I could have done it. I'm just a suit of armor, now. But—"

"—Al." Edward's voice was tiredly resigned. "We've been through this. They didn't leave you a choice. It was either you do what they said, or they killed me. So you made your choice. Don't go regretting it now."

_I'm the only one who's supposed to be having regrets, anyway._

Alphonse's voice simulated a sigh—something he still did even though there were no lungs from which to expel air. "I know. But…" A brief pause, before the suit of armor decided to plunge on before he denied himself from saying it. "…I'm scared, Brother. For you."

Edward scoffed. Something about that notion was so unpleasantly unnerving to the twelve-year-old. It trickled down his spine, dainty and disconcerting like spider legs. It just simply wasn't supposed to _happen._ "Al, please. We've got 24 hours. A full, freakin' _day_ for Mustang to find us. Besides, he promised us he'd be here in a couple of hours, and it's been…what, one?"

"Maybe. What does the pocket watch say?"

Picking up the object in question (he had taken it out of his pocket and simply left it beside him and the walkie-talkie, seeing as how it was too much of a hassle to get out with one arm the first time), he popped open the lid and strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of the small black hands on the ivory surface.

He hesitated, before finally mumbling, "Actually, it's almost been two hours." With a _click, _he closed the lid, placing it beside the walkie-talkie next to his curled form. "So either they're knocking on our door—really close to us, or…or that jerk's running late."

Edward cleared his throat to rid it—and perhaps the memory—of how his voice oddly hitched at mentioning that alternative.

"They'll find us, Brother. I know they will. Mustang made you a deal, right? He'll follow through."

_He won't leave you here to die._

The blond sighed—and tried not to think too much about the current ease with which he still had to take in that deep breath and exhale it—would it still be so easy for much longer?—and nodded, blonde hair brushing against the inside of Alphonse's back. _Keep calm, _he told his heart. _In, out. Slowly—in, and then out._ "Yeah," he muttered, and allowed himself to swallow. _Keep calm, keep quietly breathing._ "I know."

_I just wish they'd come soon._

* * *

"Sir…we have a problem."

_First of all,_ Mustang reflected, _it should not have taken two hours to find 1696 Bearburn Lane. So of course, naturally, they've encountered a problem. Of course it wouldn't be so easy. _But forcing himself to look beyond his frustrated emotions, he straightened his back from where he had been hunched over the map of the housing districts of East City, looking at the wide circle they had drawn around Bearburn Lane—he barked into the radio that Feury had handed him. "What is it, Havoc?" There was time for little else banter. Already, he was running short on time, biting back his own promise to have rescued the Elrics in a few hours.

And going back on his word was something he simply _refused _to do.

Havoc—bless his soul—came through restrained, calm, but there was no doubt the panic and failure underlining his voice. "1696 Bearburn Lane doesn't exist."

Silence.

Confusion.

And then came denial. "What do you _mean _it doesn't exist? A house can't just be there, and then disappear, Havoc—"

"—I know! But I'm staring at the houses _right now, _Colonel! It goes from 1694 to 1698. There _is _no 1696. Not even on the other side of the road, where the odd-numbered houses are. It just simply _isn't here._"

How—how could that _be_?

Without thinking, Mustang pulled the paper that Feury had before him, lying on the desk opposite their map, with on it, a compiled list of all the details they knew concerning the Elric's capture and burial—_don't think like it's for the dead, that they had a funeral, because they _didn't _they're _alive _and they're _waiting _for them, dang it—_not even bothering to turn it right-side up as he gazed at it with such fiery intensity, begging the address that Alphonse had given them to reveal the truth behind its secrets.

And…quite miraculously, it did.

But perhaps, only because he was gazing at it upside-down in the first place.

"Havoc," Mustang muttered into the radio, hoping and hoping and hoping he had this right, even as Hawkeye and Feury listened with eager, equal intensity. "Go further down the lane, look on the other side of the road. Try to find a 1969 Bearburn Lane instead."

Startled silence answered him first, before Breda's voice came on the radio. He could already hear the car engine already running again—Havoc back behind the wheel—and felt a swell of pride at how quickly his team was responding. They truly were incredible soldiers. "We're on our way, sir. You think they had the numbers flipped?"

"Anything to slow us down." And Mustang had to hand it to their unknown adversary—thought had gone into this game, this morbid play of lives.

But still, the loud, screaming question rang out—_why?_

Then, immediately, Havoc's voice was back, happy and confused at the same time. "You were right, Colonel! 1969 Bearburn Lane—it's right here. The only difference is that all the shutters are blue. They're not red."

_Still think it's the same house?_

But now Mustang was on a roll—he was on to this man, to this stranger who dared challenge his intellect. Straightening, and feeling a sense of adrenaline in his system, he couldn't help but pace even as he ordered, "Scratch the lower-level shutters. They might be painted over. Edward mentioned one of the shutters had been blue—when the two arrived, they might have been in the middle of the process of covering the red up."

_Another advantage for us—the fact Edward had noticed it at all._

The interim of silences became shorter and shorter, the more little victories were won. "You're right! Ha ha! You're a genius, Colonel! How did you know that—you know what? Don't answer that. I really don't care. We're going in, now. Over and out."

"Over and out," Roy, amused, responded.

And now—now came that horrid agony of waiting.

Another half-hour ticking by…Mustang felt himself leaning over the desk, staring at Feury's radio with dwindling patience. Feury began to fidget with his hands, turning his pencil over and over again in his hands—a nervous habit. Only Hawkeye remained perfectly still, and for the world to see, completely calm.

But anyone who knew her knew beneath the blank face burned fury and impatience equal to that of her commanding officer's. If not more because _dang it_, these were _their _boys on the line (she tried not to think about how she had been so tempted to say "_her_ boys"—no, that was simply unprofessional and quite untrue).

Then, Falman's voice suddenly came over the radio, calm and slightly bothered. "Colonel, there's a note for you—it's all they left behind."

Something uneasy crawled in Mustang's stomach. _They knew we were on to them? How else could they move everyone so quickly and efficiently? Are they even _sweating? "Don't read it over the radio. Bring it to base."

He couldn't risk the possibility that their adversary was tapping their lines—tapping their lines and, in doing so, knowing the Colonel's reaction to the note. That would give too much away, would give them too much ground and too much information on the next step for them to take, knowing how their prey was responding. The game couldn't reach that level of loss on their end. Not now. Not yet.

Not ever.

"Affirmative. On our way. Over and out."

The click of the radio signaled the end of their feed. All they could do, once more, was wait.

* * *

**Crystal's Notes: **I'm still in awe of how nice you guys are! So I'm trying (trying very hard) to make sure each chapter is longer and longer, because I know people like longer chapters (I, myself, am quite a fan of longer chapters, too). Hopefully this is a better length for some people? I was going to make it longer, but then I thought that there was already so much going on in this chapter, that I should probably wait to include the biggest plot development so far for next chapter. So it's on its way. Worry not; things are picking up while at the same time, falling apart. And yet, isn't that the sad irony of all stories? I hope you've enjoyed! Until next time!


	4. Chapter 4: That Which is Precious

_dEarest Interesting colonel,_

_so you've challenGed me. a few Hours, hm? how is That working so far?_

_oH, I'm sOrry. I sUppose I'm not playing faiR. _

_but, So i see, neither are you._

_naughty coLonel, you'rE not supposed to be so smart._

_i suppose this makes things more Fun._

_okay. i'll meeT your challenge._

_leT's fast forward tIme a bit._

_oh, and i would like to meet you. that's important, too._

_how about in an hour? at the little Café just outside of eastern headquarters?_

_i Know one of your subordinaTes—ah, breda, is it?—frequents there._

_Oh, and I do love Clichés. About as much as I love cocKroaches._

_so come alone._

_with much admiration,_

_ your adversary_

_ps: i want you to think long and hard about your relationships._

* * *

It had been four hours since Colonel Mustang first opened the box, and started the "game."

Looking back on it now as he sat at the café mentioned in the 'adversary's' letter, Roy realized he might have even considered eating here, if this had been a normal day. He might have still ordered water—or perhaps some other beverage, because he might have felt more relaxed. Might have wanted to buy some food, because he knew he could keep it down—unlike now, where his stomach was so jumbled, and his nerves and patience wearing thin, that he didn't trust himself eating anything.

Eating took time, anyway. Time that Edward simply didn't have.

_Seven hours left._

Oh, and that was the other thing.

"Let's fast forward time a bit," apparently, meant, "you now have eight hours left."

But that had been realized an hour ago.

It hadn't taken long, really, to decode that secret message. Random letters being capitalized didn't necessarily mean insanity or improper grammar—just a clever delivery of a message, to prove their adversary's wit.

(Perhaps as well as Mustang's own to have figured it out in the first place.)

_E-I-G-H-T-H-O-U-R-S-L-E-F-T-T-I-C-K-T-O-C-K_

So now, here he was. Patiently—oh, so painfully patiently—waiting on their 'adversary' to appear and say what he wanted to. It had felt like ages since the Colonel first arrived there, choosing and inconspicuous table and sitting down, ordering a water because honestly, he hadn't felt like taking in anything else.

And it wasn't until he was halfway through his third glass that the man finally sat opposite him. Mustang knew it was him the instant he saw him; Alphonse's descriptions ran true.

_Square face, dark brown hair, fuzz around the chin and mouth—glasses on the nose, crazed brown-orange eyes._

Unsurprisingly, the first thing Mustang felt towards him wasn't fear at all.

It was raw _anger._

"Colonel Roy Mustang."

Even that _voice _made him want to flip the table over and simply strangle the man. It was smooth—medium-high. Shouldn't have belonged to a man who was practically begging to be scorched on the spot.

"I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage," Roy finally managed as he calmly placed his drink back on the napkin. "I don't know your name."

The man hummed, leaning forward, placing his elbows on the table, intertwining his fingers, and resting his lips just below them. "Actually, I have you at several disadvantages. But this one's such a shame. I rather like my name, too—came up with it myself." A grin, partially revealing spotless, perfectly-straight teeth. "I like to call myself Odi Sanguis."

Roy tilted his head slightly—a bow in acknowledgement, even as recognition flashed through his mind. _Old Cretian. _He had no idea what the phrase meant—but some part of him figured it'd help their case to figure it out.

"All right. How…_nice _to meet you, then, Odi Sanguis," Mustang said, giving a sweetly impolite smirk.

There was one falter in the haughty gleam of the man across from him—and Roy counted that as a sure victory. But other than that, there was nothing else the man gave in reaction to that subtle gesture of defiance.

"Likewise." Straightening slightly, Odi smiled as he beckoned for a waitress and ordered a glass of iced tea—unsweetened.

It wasn't until the woman had hurried away to retrieve the order that Odi leaned forward again and confided, "You know, Mustang, I must say, you're quite the interesting man." He smiled, suddenly fascinated with the Colonel as if he were a specimen under a microscope. "And I say that quite fondly. You and your men—all of them—you're so…exciting."

Mustang said nothing, taking a quiet sip of his water. His throat—for some, odd reason—suddenly felt dry, and his palms sweaty.

This wasn't…something normal to be told.

But Odi went on. "Speaking of them—they aren't here with you, right? You did, I hope, follow my request and come alone. Because if you didn't, I'm afraid there will be drastic consequences for everyone involved—and I _do _hate to lose my studies so early on in the game."

Despite how much he wanted to lie, Mustang shook his head with honesty. "None of my men are here. All of them have agreed to stay behind at headquarters."

One of Odi's eyebrows shot up with impressed glee. "All of them? Sitting back, while their dear leader puts himself in danger? For all you know, _I _could not be alone right now. And if I weren't, and something were to happen to _you_, well,_ then_ what would you think of your self-sacrificing heroics?"

Mustang made sure his black eyes bored deep in Odi's brown ones, a threat underlining each word. "We decided that was a risk well worth the results."

This appeared to delight the adversary extremely so. He nearly clapped with glee, grinning ear-to-ear. "So the boys really do mean that much, do they?" The Colonel didn't answer—but didn't have to. Odi was already talking once again, babbling. "Oh, I knew it, I knew it! You all are my most _wonderful _projects yet! I must say—the two boys were fun on their own—the infinite _bond _they share is _so _much more powerful than any brotherly relationship I've ever seen—but then _you_, Colonel—you and your noble men come into the scene and you add the cherry to this ice cream that I've been whipping up! How fantastic!"

"What are you after?" Mustang asked, too angry and too determined to get to the bottom of this, that beating around the bush didn't matter anymore. It was wasteful of time—time that could be spent _getting answers._

By now, the waitress had given Odi his glass of unsweetened tea, and, smiling, too far gone in his happy thoughts, the man avoided the question entirely and asked one of his own, instead. "Do you know the moment I first noticed you, Colonel? It was quite a few months ago—you probably don't remember. In fact, you might not even have seen me." The grin grew—and twisted, something dark that had been brewing for a long time slithering beneath its surface. "But I saw you—you and that beautiful boy, and that lovely lady you were with. If I remember right—ah, what was that—was that Iville?"

Iville.

Memories rushed into Mustang's mind in the form of reports and mission statements, facts, codes, and data. _Three months ago—that undercover assignment that required me, Hawkeye, and Fullmetal to pose as a family in order to unearth a rogue alchemist. Yes, I remember that._

It had been easy enough—required no more than a week to solve and finish—and, in reality, the entire thing was so inconsequential (and, terribly awkward) that all three of them had gladly turned a blind eye to it once it had been over.

_But he had seen us?_

"What does that have to do with anything?" Mustang kept his words careful and calm, guarded even as he watched the man before him drink his tea.

Odi smiled, his finger idly wiping his glass free of condensation before beginning to sketch on the table. "Everything. Because you see, Colonel—I was getting bored. So bored. 'Cuz nobody's _fun _anymore—people are afraid to make connections, and give part of themselves to someone else. No one stays together; they find something stupid to argue and leave each other over, and eventually, everyone learns _not to love."_

Something was begging to be noticed here, but Mustang, frustratingly, couldn't figure it out at the moment. Narrowing his eyes, he continued to listen as the crazed man went on. "And that's when I get bored. I mean, I can't work with anything if there's nothing there."

Odi's grin widened, excitement sparking up back up as he went on. "And _then—_into my life, strolling right through my vision, so ready to be ruined, passes this pretty _family. _A handsome, exotic dark-haired man—his fair, exquisite wife—and their golden son." Laughing a little, and steepling his fingers together, he muttered, "I must admit, you three had me fooled at first. I thought you were the real deal. And then, I dug deeper, and found out the three of you weren't related at all." A shrug—a dismissal. "Sure, I was disappointed. Sure, I had thought it would be a dead end. But I found something even _better_—while you three may not have been a true family, all of you and your men truly _function _as one."

That dark, menacing _thing _was back behind Odi's smile as he leaned forward, lips touching his fingers again. "And then…I found out those two were _brothers_, and _everything _was _perfect._"

Mustang fought the urge to stand up and growl and do something—snap—throw—punch—anything to vent to this man, to make him realize he had _no right to touch something as precious as those two's love—"_What makes you think you have the right to mess with people like that?"

"I'm a psychological scientist." Odi said it as if it were the simplest thing in the world—as if there were several people like him out there, doing their own things. "Families both fascinate me, and disgust me. So, I try to figure them out. I find their breaking point—what ties them together—what pulls them apart—and what scares them the most. It's quite like dissecting, really—pulling apart all the arteries, all the veins, to get to the heart of the matter, and then figuring out how best to destroy it."

Rage boiled through Mustang's veins, surging and billowing—so strong and so overwhelming that it took him a minute to get it under control. But when he did, there was a strange sense of hilarity in the whole situation that he found—one he hadn't noticed before—and upon realizing it, he began to laugh.

This, too, caught the adversary off-guard by the smallest margin. Darkness fluttered across the other's face. "You aren't supposed to find this funny."

But Mustang kept laughing—on and on, because—"Wow. You're an _idiot._"

This, apparently, stunned the adversary into complete and utter silence. So, Roy delightfully continued. "I mean, mistaking me and my two colleagues for a family—that's understandable. It was part of our job at the time. But then to assume that me and my subordinates form a surrogate family of sorts behind the scenes?" That was where the laughter resumed, taking him over by wonderful storm.

Once he was done, he was glad to see that the man across from him was still too shocked to speak. He went on. "Obviously, whoever is giving you your information isn't very good. My men and I are _nothing close _to a family. We're co-workers. Nothing more, nothing less. It's simply that simple."

"But it's _still there_!" Odi finally burst once he found his voice. His hands clenched the edge of the table, desperation lining his frame as he cried, "I _saw it myself_! I _heard it_! You were _scared_ when you heard that I had them, what I had done to them! You're still scared! You said it yourself! You _care_! You _love them_!"

Now it was Mustang's turn to raise an eyebrow, casually leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. _I was right. He _was _listening in, somehow. _"I don't believe I ever said I was scared—"

Frustrated, angry, the adversary slammed his hand down on the table, over the spot he had been sketching with the excess water from his glass. A curse sprang from his lips—and suddenly, Mustang knew he had won. Time had gone on long enough—nearly another hour had already passed, too much time spent already—so he stood up. _Let's bring an end to this._

A few tables away, someone else stood up at the same time, and began to make their way over.

"Mr. Odi Sanguis, we are done here. I believe you are under the arrest for tapping into military lines and bugging a military office, as well as abducting and attempting the murder of a state alchemist. You'll be coming with us, today, and most likely, you won't ever be returning to whatever place you call 'home,'" Roy muttered, smirking as Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye jerked the adversary into a standing position and began to hand-cuff him.

Odi was flabbergasted, unable to turn around and fully see the woman arresting him-but knowing, feeling she was there all the same. "You—you _liar_! You said—_you told me—_none of your men were with you! I thought you were a man of your word, Colonel!"

"But I am," Mustang replied innocently, truly seeming shocked by the accusations. "I told you all of my men stayed at headquarters."

_I said nothing about _her_._

The other guests of the café looked shocked at the sudden arrest, but very relieved—especially if it meant whatever criminal was now caught. Now they were safe from one more menace—hooray for the military finally being shone in a good light!

But while Hawkeye made eye contact with Roy—_Good work, sir. Let's take him back—and be careful. He _does _have men working for him_—Odi Sanguis struggled futilely in the woman's grasp.

But then, finally, and quite suddenly, as if giving up on everything else and throwing it all to fate, Odi began to laugh.

"You fools! You call _me _the idiot! But you forget and fail to notice one simple thing!" he yelled, crazed and frantic, and powerless to help himself. _An over-zealous idiot who thinks he's smart, but falls into the simplest of traps—_

"You aren't in a position to be calling anyone fool, Mr. Sanguis," Roy advised, even as he stepped around the table to near their criminal. "You practically handed yourself over to me."

But Odi Sanguis met Roy's eyes with a startlingly clear look—much saner now, after a moment of madness. "And _you _practically signed the kid's death warrant."

Surprise and doubt made Roy bite his tongue as Odi gestured with his head to the table. "Take a look, now! You probably will recognize my work—you being a fellow alchemist and all. Not to mention incredibly intelligent—you see what I've done? Or, rather, what I've _stopped _doing?"

And Roy did. His heart fell to his toes.

The condensation that he thought his adversary had simply been "sketching" with turned out to be an array—an array that he had activated in his anger when he slammed his hand onto the table, Roy realized. And even though the water was scattered now, he could make out the tracings of symbols for "air" and molecular conversions from "carbon dioxide" to "oxygen"…

_I was right. He was using alchemy to transmute the air Edward was breathing to keep him alive for as long as he wanted._

_But now he's shut it off._

"Congratulations, Colonel. In total, you've managed to take away fifteen hours from your golden boy's life—and just in the span of a few hours, too. How does that make you feel, knowing he has only…oh, I don't know, maybe four hours—if he's extremely lucky—left to live?"

Gone was any voice of reason, now. Gone was any attempt at composure. Turning in rage, he seethed at the criminal—this piece of _scum _before him—_because how dare this man bury a twelve-year-old boy inside the armor of his brother to die slowly and awfully—and force his younger brother to be unable to do anything to save him, instead harbor him and watch and listen as his one last, living, dearest family member dies inside him—_and roared, "_Tell me where they are!"_

This excited the adversary, making him grin even as Hawkeye frowned and jerked his hands painfully behind him. "_I'll never tell! Never in a million years! _There's nothing you can do to me that will make me feel regret, or will make me confess to you their location! It's just like _you_ said, Colonel—I consider this satisfaction of your pain well worth the risk, especially if it gives me _these _results! _I hope you all never find them!_"

Hawkeye didn't object to him punching the man so hard, he knocked him unconscious.

* * *

"…it stopped."

Edward's quiet, surprised words snapped Alphonse out of his worried daze. "What stopped, Brother?"

"That humming noise. Didn't you hear it?"

Alphonse thought a moment, stilling himself and straining to hear, listening as carefully as possible. And, well…now that Brother mentioned it, it _did_ seem a bit quieter. Something was off—gone, no longer part of the situation and yet, Alphonse couldn't quite put a finger on what was suddenly missing.

But then, suddenly and unexpectedly, Ed stiffened, having already figured it out.

"Crap…I'm such an _idiot…"_

"What?" Alphonse felt something similar to pain as fear gripped his soul, something sharp and acute—a phantom spear piercing his chest. "What's wrong, Brother?"

"Alchemy. _That's _what it was—he was transmuting the carbon dioxide I was exhaling, and turning it back into oxygen at a constant rate. He _was, _but—gah, dang it!" The sound of flesh punching metal as Edward threw his fist at the metal of chest plate encasing him.

Alphonse's non-existent heart plummeted—because he knew what came next, even as Edward muttered it angrily, voice shaking slightly (because after all, how does a twelve-year-old cope with the fact their lifespan has just been significantly depleted?). He could hear his brother swallow once, before announcing the cursed reality. "…I think he stopped powering it…"

Both of them could do the math. What had once been several hours of time to wait for the Colonel—what, it had only been five hours in total so far, so they were _supposed _to have nineteen hours to wait—_nineteen_—had been reduced to only four. Maybe three.

Alphonse fought to keep his voice steady, reassuring, strong. But against his armor, he could feel the weight of his brother on him shift, tremble, and work _so hard _to keep his breathing and heart rate under control. "They'll find us, Brother. I bet they're really close, too—that's why they turned it off. He's worried, scared. The Colonel's almost here—I know he is!"

Edward nodded, not trusting himself to full volume, and instead, whispering with such strong—_desperate-_intensity, "I know, little Brother. I know he is, too."

A chill went down Alphonse's soul.

_Because Brother never calls me 'little Brother.' Except…_

…except for times like these, when they were in danger so great, that Edward couldn't see the way out.

It had been the same the night their mother died.

It had been the same the night they tried to transmute her back.

It had been the same when Edward had been hazy and pained from automail surgery.

And Alphonse dared fate to try and kill his brother now, after the few times he called him "little brother," and _still _managed to carry on, live on, to continue calling him "Al."

(Which, somehow, strangely—as endearing as "little brother" was—meant so much more.)

* * *

**Crystal's Notes: **Well! We've finally picked up pace! I do believe this story will be ending in a few more chapters. So thank you to all who have reviewed so far! You're truly wonderful inspirations! I've also got another idea for an FMA story that's quite...exotic? But we'll see if it sticks around long enough to be actually put into words, ha ha. Because as far as I see, very few AU's are well-received here...but we'll see!

Thanks, and I hope you enjoy! Review, if you like to be kind! (heart heart)


	5. Chapter 5: Shattering Glass

The first thing Mustang saw upon returning to his office, the search about to start itself anew and with quicker vigor, was a female dark-haired stranger in the chair opposite his desk with a sour look upon her face, Havoc and Breda standing on either side of her, looking equally as displeased (if not more), along with two remarkably familiar automail limbs lying on his desk.

His eyes, already taking in the situation and forming a theory, turned to Havoc for confirmation. His subordinate nodded, teeth tightening around his cigarette.

"She's with 'im, sir. Tried to sneak in and hand over the Boss's automail without us seeing." Then, he scoffed, pride lining his voice as he added, "As you can see, _that _went well."

The young lady bristled—a woman in her mid-twenties, Mustang wagered—baring her teeth at his second lieutenant. "It's not _my _fault! You guys aren't supposed to be so…so good! You ruin _everything_! It's—crap, it's not even _worth _whatever he was paying us if his information on you all was so faulty!"

Mustang hummed, a swell of pride growing in his belly as he rounded his desk. "So you're his employee."

The woman was silent a moment, her eyes snapping from Havoc back to the Colonel, as if debating what all she should say. Finally, however, she made a decision and leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. _A gesture demanding respect—respect Roy just simply wouldn't give her, because she didn't deserve it. Not after what she aided in happening. _"Yes. And so are several other people that you'll never see."

Hawkeye raised an eyebrow. Although her arms were crossed over her chest as well, her left hand twitched the slightest, as if threatening their captive to give her a reason to draw her gun. "But we have your employer. Aren't you obligated to initiate a rescue?"

The dark-haired girl shook her head. "Nope. He even said it himself—if anything happens to him, we're all supposed to just walk away with our money and forget he even existed."

Breda snorted. "That's quite the interesting contract."

"Yeah, well, unlike _you _guys, we aren't bound by fickle whims of loyalty." She shrugged. "We were just in it for the money. Nothing more, nothing less."

Mustang narrowed his eyes, a sense of anger coming over him that he quickly pushed down. _So money was the only reason the boys were buried, suffocating and suffering. _"So now that he's out of commission, you all have decided to simply wave the white flag and stop cooperating with him? Hand over the automail, try to form a truce. Just like that?"

The woman grinned—a too-proud, wide smirk that really better on a certain half-metal brat the Colonel knew. "Just like that. So, can I go now?"

This time, Mustang snorted, straightening up. "Sure. You can go. Lieutenant Hawkeye?"

The woman gave the smallest of acknowledgements—the corner of her mouth tipped upward at a tiny degree, a fraction of a smirk—before she walked forward, grabbed the woman's arms and wrestled them behind her, and began to hand-cuff her.

The reaction the woman gave her was priceless, and Mustang reveled in it.

"W-what?" she spluttered, wriggling and trying to scoot away, but the blond-haired woman was faster, stronger, and hardly gave her an inch to move. "Y-you can't do this! I—I gave you the automail! Shouldn't…should that be enough to appease you? Why aren't you letting me go? You have no proof I was an accomplice—!"

"—first off, _lady_," Havoc interrupted, a frown lining his features and furrowing his eyebrows. "I think you confessed yourself to being in league with our perpetrator. _While _we are all present, too."

She froze a moment, gaping, before wriggling and trying to speak again—before the Colonel broke in.

"And secondly," he added, leaning forward again and glaring directly into her eyes as he lowered his voice. "You think giving me what's left of my subordinate will be enough to make me forgive the peril you've put him and his brother in?" He grit his teeth—knowing he looked menacing, knowing he looked mean, but not caring at all. "Nothing you can do will make me condone what you've helped happen. I do not stand for that kind of pointless injustice, and will _never _be appeased by something less than what I want."

_Which is those two boys back—safe and sound._

She gaped again—this time, a sense of dread and respect shining behind her eyes—_this man really is the real deal; there's a certain type of awe that one can't deny when in the face of that_—before she fired back, "They'll come back for me—my coworkers! They'll rescue me; I know it!"

"No they won't," and this time, it was Breda who spoke, his voice calm and lazy. "After all, you said it yourself. The lot of you was only in it for the money. So who's going to pay them to come after you? You aren't bound by 'fickle whims of loyalty.' If you thought your coworkers were going to treat you as 'family' and come after you for their own good will—well, hun, sorry to disappoint, but you'll be waiting here a long while. Family isn't defined by dollar bills."

The woman faltered. Her voice was suddenly hoarse. "…then, what _is _it defined by?"

Mustang shrugged, gesturing for his lieutenant to take her away. "Don't ask me. I wouldn't know. Maybe you'll figure it out while in your cell."

He tried to ignore the way _his _coworkers—his men—and his single woman—looked at his back as he turned around and examined the automail, mind whirring with how to turn these change of events in their favor.

Because—he really _didn't _know…right…?

* * *

**3.5 hours left.**

* * *

"Fullmetal, can you hear me?"

Edward jumped, attention caught and snagged, heart-pounding for a split-second faster than it should have before he could calm it again, reaching for the walkie-talkie and speaking into it, "I'm here, Colonel."

"Good. Now, I know you need to save your breath—" –_particularly now; the Colonel wasn't stupid enough to think the boy hadn't figured out how much time he had left by this point— "—_but I also need you to speak to me, because I know now how to find you two. So I'm going to need your cooperation, all right?"

…wait.

"What did he just say?!" Alphonse screeched—thrilled—exuberant.

Fullmetal straightened, trying so hard—_oh gosh, practically forcing his heart not to beat so hard with anticipation—_but that was a difficult feat, considering _they had a way out of this. _Now, more so than ever before. "You think I'm going to object?" he joked lightly into the device.

He heard Mustang chuckle on the other end of the line, before growing serious. "I don't kid, Fullmetal." _Not now, at least. _"We have your automail. Mind telling me its chemical composition?"

And all of a sudden, the man's plan snapped into place in Edward's mind. He couldn't help but grin. _Genius. Oh-ho, pure genius—and that wasn't a compliment he gave freely to the Colonel, silently or not. _"First off, let me ask a question of my own—because what you're asking won't work unless you give it a boundary. Have an estimated radius of our location?"

"Are you really doubting my abilities as a Colonel, Fullmetal? Yes, we do. It was one of the first things we took note of—that, and trying to see if we could trace the signal to your walkie-talkie."

_But we both see how that's been working so far._

"Good," Edward supplied. "Then listen carefully, 'cuz I'm only saying this once…"

"But Brother," Alphonse argued, worried, desperate—and oh, goodness, weren't they all? But Alphonse so much more—because this was his _brother _here, inside him, who he couldn't do anything to save—and if he lost him, well, there wasn't any way of getting him back. _Not like Brother did for me. _"Your air! If you speak, you'll use up more of it, and our time will be shorter—"

"—your brother is right, Edward." That was Hawkeye's voice on the other end—crap, too late Edward realized he had held down the 'talk' button while Alphonse was speaking, and so everyone else had heard every word.

"In fact, I don't even know _why_ the Colonel is suggesting you use up your air in talking to us." That statement, filled with annoyance and bite, was probably more so aimed at her superior than the boys themselves. "So forget his request. Sit there, hang tight, and _we will come to you. _Do _not _forget my earlier instructions, Edward." _Now more than ever._

But despite all this, the blonde merely sighed, and responded calmly, "I appreciate your help, Hawkeye—but Mustang's right. The alchemy he's wanting to use is going to lead him right to us. If he knows the materials in my automail, which are _identical to my automail ports, _he can use them like magnets to one another. We'd be out of here in no-time, then. And besides." Here, Edward paused for a small, calm breath—a slow _in, then out_—before he resumed speaking. "You guys are forgetting. I'm short two limbs. My heart doesn't need to pump blood to an arm and a leg, so it doesn't need to intake as much oxygen as a normal body. Even if I talk, I figure I'll still be lasting a few more hours." _Another advantage—another aid in getting them through this._

Mustang had the walkie-talkie back, apparently, because the next thing he heard was a strange tone in the Colonel's voice when he spoke next. _What was that, pride? _"All right, then, Fullmetal. Get listing. The quicker we get this done with, the better."

Edward nodded. It took a while—perhaps much longer than Alphonse would have liked—but that was mainly due to the fact that every once in a while, they would get distracted with the transmutation circle itself—which was quite difficult, and strange, and unlike other alchemic circles because it technically wasn't destroying and then recreating anything—instead of talking about the chemical properties of Edward's automail.

But finally—things were finally in place. If Alphonse had a heart, he was sure it would be beating a mile-a-minute—how was Brother so calm? How could he be, knowing that in just a few moments, their long suffering would be over?—and he could hear Mustang over the other end, "All right. We're on our way, Fullmetal, Alphonse. Be careful, you two."

Edward snorted, about to respond, before Alphonse intervened, tired of Brother using so much of his limited air, "We'll be okay, Colonel. It's not like we can actually _go_ anywhere, after all."

Mustang snorted on the other end. "Well. We'll be there, soon…and Fullmetal?"

This made Edward stiffen—because that, too, was another tone he wasn't used to hearing in his superior's voice. _Regret? Softness? _"…yes?"

"…I apologize. For not getting there in a few hou—"

There was a strange click, and then there was silence.

* * *

**2 hours left.**

* * *

And all of a sudden, Brother started panicking for a split-second. "Colonel?" he asked, pressing down on the button—over and over and over again, but nothing was coming through. "Colonel, what's going on? Are you there? Can you hear me?"

"Brother…" Alphonse breathed, scared, but yet still, somehow, the voice of reason. "…Brother, I think its dead."

"What do you _mean _its dead, Al?"

"Walkie-talkies like that run on batteries—not alchemy, remember? And I think…I think the battery ran out."

_We can't talk to the Colonel anymore._

_We don't know when they're coming._

_If they're coming._

_When they'll get here._

_We don't know…we don't know…_

Edward swore, loud and angry, throwing the walkie-talkie down and to Alphonse's feet—the same place he had thrown the gun when he had first found the awful thing. And then there was silence—silence, apart from the heavy, harsh breathing of the older Elric, who couldn't, not yet, slow down his breathing to conserve air.

But then, there came another curse—this one, soft and heavy—and Alphonse realized with a start that the harsh and shallow breathing _wasn't stopping._

"Brother…?" When at first there wasn't a response, Alphonse's voice picked up speed and pitch. "Brother, what's wrong? Are you okay?"

A split-second pause. One where Alphonse was sure—he could feel the change in weight—his brother had been about to nod, so close to giving that automatic reaction of assurance, but instead, much to the armored one's horror, Edward decided to shake his head. To be honest. To finally, this once, tell his little brother, no, it's not okay_. I'm not okay._

"I think…" A swallow, and oh, gosh, why wouldn't that small chest just slow _down _instead of breathing so small and shallowly and quickly, as if everything was ending oh so very soon? "…I think I spoke too much…"

And that was when Alphonse realized that _this was it._

This might be the end.

* * *

**No, not 2 hours left. Maybe 1.**

**Maybe half.**

* * *

Right here, in this little box under the ground, _inside him, _he might lose his last living family member.

He might lose everything, too soon, when they were still just starting to try to make everything _right again._

"Brother," Alphonse began, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible, because he couldn't let it show—couldn't let his fear show now—because wasn't he supposed to be the strong one here? While Edward was suffering, this was _his _time to hold them through, to pull them together, _keep _them together. "I-it'll be okay. They're almost here…" Oh, gosh, how many times had he already said that sickening phrase?

But then Edward tried to speak. "Al—"

And Alphonse decided even if he loved Edward's voice—because that was something he had noticed while being a suit of armor, too; because he could no longer feel his brother, smell his brother, seeing and hearing him had become things he treasured infinitely, deep down in his soul—he loved hearing his brother _breathe _even more.

"_Shut up!_" he yelled. "Just _shut. Up. _Don't talk, don't speak—don't move. Just _breathe, _Brother. Don't do _anything _else, okay?"

Edward jumped, startled at the sudden order—the sudden tone his normally-complacent, quite, hospitable brother was using. "But Al—"

"—no!" Alphonse tried not to shake—really, he did, but it was hard, because oh, gosh, _he was so afraid_—"I don't want to hear it! None of it! Any of it! I just…" And here, the sob broke through. The sob that didn't exist—not really—but still trembled throughout his being, thick and choking. _Even if you're silent, I just want you here with me. Don't die just so I can hear you. I can stand the silence. I just need _you. "…just don't…_die…"_

There was a soft pause, so tender, so open, before Edward nodded, still quietly heaving. "Okay, Al," he whispered. "I won't." Alphonse could feel the pressure of his brother's flesh hand on the inside of his back—a comforting presence just below his blood seal. "I won't."

But that was easier said than done.

Neither of them mentioned the gun that was now touching Edward's foot, it's presence a cold and menacing thing that neither wanted to acknowledge.

So they sat.

And they waited.

And time ticked onward, while the air dwindled.

…but it all went to hell the first time Edward choked.

And then choked again.

* * *

**Is it 1 hour now? Half an hour? Ten minutes? Twenty?**

* * *

"Here—_here_! Stop!"

Tire wheels screeched, and even before they were at a complete halt, car doors were being thrown open, black boots hitting the ground and running.

"Sir, we're in the middle of nowhere. How are you sure they're—?"

"—I just _know_; the alchemy's pulling in this direction. Follow me!"

They obeyed.

* * *

**How long can a body survive without air, underground?**

* * *

"_Brother_!" Alphonse cried. _Oh crap oh no this wasn't supposed to be happening not yet the Colonel was supposed to be here how long has it been has it been four hours it feels like it's only been five minutes_—"—Brother, hang on! They're almost here! I know it! _Please_!"

But Edward couldn't hear him—not over the roar in his hears—the loud choking of his own throat as he tried—fought—battled with the lack of air in his surroundings.

Unthinkingly, he flung about his two limbs, flailing, clawing, bucking up his chest because—_air air where is it I need it why isn't it here I can't breathe oh gosh I can't breathe_—desperate to find something, _anything_—a hole, a leak, something to _get oxygen into his hurting lungs because nothing else was working and oh gosh I'm really going to die down here I can't breathe I can't think ow ow ow._

A high, ringing noise began to permeate Edward's senses, as a large headache assaulted his mind—right from his forehead, too, it felt, banging straight through bone, cartilage, flesh like a hammer.

It _hurt, _it _hurt_—oh gosh, _he couldn't breathe_!

Hazy, broken, falling apart, suffocating, Edward reached for the gun, _something, anything to end it on my own terms because the quick bullet would be easier._

"_BROTHER!_"

But reality snapped back into focus in the form of his little brother's shocked, pained, offended voice—brief, clear, pain-free—_but there was still no air._

And yet, in that single darkening second of clarity, Edward turned away from the pistol and instead, shakingly, lifted up his hand—_no air, no air, why is my head so heavy why can't I think—_and began to draw letters on the inside of his brother's chest-plate, scraggly and small, because it was all he could manage.

_Like we used to do on each other's backs when we were kids and whole and happy and carefree and didn't have to worry yet about coffins and alchemy and breathing._

And Alphonse could feel the trembling pressure—_not the softness, not the texture, but he could always feel when someone was pressing on his armor_—and the small letters, and knew what his brother was saying before Edward even finished.

I-M-S-O-R-

But that was as far as he got.

With a final choke—_a horrible, dry gurgle, disgusting, shouldn't have happened, he shouldn't be hearing this, this__ shattering glass, everything breaking to ruins around them, slivers and fragments of what-could-have-been's—_that hand fell back—

—and Edward lay still.

And Alphonse began to scream.

* * *

**Now it's 3 minutes.**

**Because anything longer, and the damage would be irreparable.**

**(But not that there hasn't been irreparable damage already.)**

* * *

**Crystal's Notes: **Oooooo...this was a toughy. 8D I must say. There are few times, and I remember each one, in which I've actually had to stand up while writing a story and take a quite break walking around my room as I brainstormed and re-collected my thoughts before plunging in again...and now, this story has officially become one of them! 8D Woo!

Erm, please forgive me for the mean cliffhanger. I mean, I hadn't intended to end it there, but that last line came to me, and I knew in my heart it was where I should end the chapter because it just made everything I wanted to include in this installment feel so _snug _and _complete _(even as things are reaching their breaking point). One of those odd, self-assuring moments; I mean, surely, you guys, as my peers and fellow-authors, understand, right?

...right?


	6. Chapter 6: Breathe

**Sometimes, just because he was a suit of armor, now, invincible in nearly every aspect—he forgot that Edward wasn't the same.**

**That Brother was still human.**

**And still fragile.**

**(Even though he tries to act so strong.)**

* * *

_Hurry. Hurry. Hurry. No time to waste. He could be dying. Could be dead. We have to get them out. Have to get them out_._ Now now now._

There was a yank on Mustang's arms when he found something in the way of the sand moving, preventing it from obeying his alchemy. His heart, however, picked up pace upon realizing what it was, and he quickly ushered more strength into his hastily-drawn transmutation circle to urge the sand beneath the boy's coffin—_box, box_—up and to the surface.

_And oh, oh gosh they were so, so close, now—_but Mustang felt a spear of pain stab his chest. Something was wrong. Something was off. _And it shouldn't be, because they didn't have _time _for anything else to be wrong._

It took Mustang a split second to realize what it was—that that sound he was subconsciously hearing was muffled screaming. And not just anyone's screams.

_Alphonse._

"GO! GO!" He shouted, launching himself forward even as one of his crew threw him a crowbar (so much quicker and faster and safer than simply blowing up the huge box with alchemy)—and _oh, oh gosh, oh no, were they too late? Was Edward already dead and Alphonse too mentally broken to salvage? Was that what he was hearing?_ _The tortured cries of a lonely, abandoned brother?_ But he forced those fears aside and simply told his body to _heave._

With a _snap, _the lid came away quicker than expected.

* * *

**2 minutes left.**

* * *

He shoved it off—caught a glimpse metal—_oh, thank God, that was Alphonse—_because he didn't realize some small part of him was afraid that they had been fooled with a fake cof—_box._

But then his eyes locked onto Alphonse's soul ones—and for a split-second, just a hair's breathe of time. there was silence as they each registered each other's presence.

Oh, gosh_, they had made it. _

But then, Alphonse's scream tore through the relief, frantic. High. _Scared._

"_GET HIM OUT OF ME!"_

It spurred Mustang into action as he realized—oh no—oh dear—oh _gosh_—something was _so, so wrong. _What was Alphonse saying? He could hardly hear it over his own breath, his own swears as he hurriedly fumbled with the leather latches on Alphonse's armor. _"—E CAN'T BREATHE! HE'S DYING! COLONEL! HURRY! GET HIM __**OUT**__!"_

Oh _gosh._

With a tear, Mustang through the chest plate to the side as soon as it was free—_oh gosh, there the boy was, small, still, pale, __**lips so blue, **__and oh, gosh, why were his eyes still open?_—and instantly, he caught on to Alphonse's panic, reaching inside the boy's armor to pick up his brother—_oh gosh, so limp, so heavy, __**but yet still warm; **__he wasn't too far gone yet_—and pulled Edward out, putting him on the sandy ground, even as he shouted to the others, "Air! Respirator—get it! He's not breathing!"

He knew. Without even looking at the boy, _he knew_—because the Fullmetal Alchemist he knew had never been such a dead weight.

(_Wrong choice of words, Colonel._)

But then he felt Hawkeye—he didn't know how he knew it was her; he just did the instant she touched him, shoving him out of the way and kneeling in his place. He watched, hypnotized, as she bent over Edward, shouting, "He needs CPR first, sir! We need to get his lungs working again before it'll be of any help!"

And before he could even give the order, she was doing it. Pressing, both hands, on the boy's chest, a quick—_thump, thump, thump_—and then putting her lips to Edward's, forcing life back into him.

(Because he could swear—the way the boy looked—he had none left.)

* * *

**1 minute left.**

* * *

It went on for three more times, and each time, Mustang could feel pain in his sternum, sharp and acute. Cold fingers, gripping and scratching—because _oh gosh, this couldn't be the end. _He could feel his sweat trickle down the side of his face and throat, thick, sticky and warm.

He was half-aware of Breda and Havoc helping Alphonse out of the coffin—a desperate, frantic Alphonse who was constantly asking about his brother every five seconds and struggling hard against their hands to get to the other half of him. But he couldn't stand on his own—_oh yeah, _Mustang remembered, _they had taken his feet—_so there they stood, hovering, shouting, desperate and writhing. Crying, as best Alphonse could. Off to the other side waited Falman and Feury, the latter holding the transportable respirator, which was ready and humming.

And then, suddenly, Edward's body jerked, gagged, coughed, and Mustang felt he could both cry and wring that little neck silly for all the scares it had given him at the same time.

"Falman! Feury! Now!" he bellowed, shooting to his feet, not bothering to wipe the sand off of his uniform as the two surged forward.

But Edward was giving up a fight—a fight against an unseen enemy—_maybe his own inability to properly breathe?—_his one arm flailing about as he continued to heave and hack and gasp so jaggedly, and erratically that Mustang had the image in his mind of half-mutilated, completely-malformed lungs within the boy's ribcage—but yet the worst part was, he was making some sort of odd, deep, _groaning _noise underneath it all.

_He's in pain._

And even as Mustang took a step forward, unsure what to do, it was futile. With Falman holding down Edward's struggling arm and leg, Feury pressed the mouth piece over Edward's blue lips, instantly making the plastic fog up with the heat of the boy's crazed breaths. A minute passed—maybe two—and then the struggling slowed down, Edward's eyes drooping with a combination of exhaustion and the slight dose of sedative gas within the respirator's chamber.

But no one missed the way his roaming, half-wild eyes glanced first left, and then right—finally landing on his brother, who drew the first light of recognition out of the half-conscious boy. Falman felt Edward's arm twitch—an instinctive reaction, the older man realized—as if he were trying to reach out for Alphonse.

Then the eyes drooped shut, sleep claiming him.

No one commented on how they all waited for a few moments afterwards, just watching the boy's small chest as it feebly, hitchingly rose an inch and then fell—rose again, and then fell once more. Perhaps weak, but still constant. A cycle forced into being by the respirator, but at least it was keeping him alive.

_After all this, still alive._

* * *

**Please tell me  
You'll fight this fight  
I  
Can't see  
Without your light  
I need you to  
Breathe into  
My life**

* * *

After everything else—after everything had finally settled down—Edward in the hospital, sleeping (which the doctor recommended be the best recovery; this way, he subconsciously re-learns to breathe on his own)—Alphonse situated—the team, after _nine hours _spent in this hellish day, retiring for the evening—

—Alphonse found the most annoying thing to be that he was still handless and footless.

Somewhere, he was sure, in the backwater parts of his mind, some part of him was boiling over that matter. Obscenely angry, because this meant he couldn't touch Brother—couldn't put that leather hand on his chest just to _feel _the reassuring rise and fall that meant _Brother was alive._

But the larger part of him was instead concerned with what lay before him on the hospital bed. With so important a person lying there—_someone who he had very nearly just lost_—all other brain functions simply failed to work besides waiting and watching for those golden eyes to open again, and that broad, proud smile to grace those lips.

And besides that. Some part of him was still processing everything, too.

Because his mind couldn't…cope yet. With what happened.

He could still hear the way Edward choked when he couldn't breathe. Could still feel the vibrations of that small body convulsing without air—and could still remember the horror when he realized _there was nothing he could do and oh gosh Brother was going to die right here inside him, trapped; his one last family member, relative of blood, brother of soul and mind, his other half was going to die because he was just a stupid suit of metal too useless to do anything._

He never thought he'd feel so week as a freakin' seven-foot-tall set of _armor._

It made Alphonse feel horrible inside. Churn his soul, sicken him—he was pretty sure he'd feel nauseous if he had any human organs at the moment.

But thinking of organs brought up the matter of Brother's lungs and that—

—well, he still found himself struggling to breathe when he remembered the way Edward couldn't.

Alphonse shifted where he sat on a large chair conveniently left for him by the nurse ladies. "Brother," he finally, brokenly, mumbled, knowing Edward couldn't hear him, but wanting to—_needing_ to—say this anyway, if only to get it off his chest. He sighed shakily.

"…let's…never lie about not being brothers again."

_Because if something like this happens again…I don't want to have remembered ever denying you._

In the silence, overcome, Alphonse let himself give in to his childish, younger-sibling desires—_because oh, gosh, Brother, Brother, dear Brother mine—_and comforts. Bending down over the older Elric, he carefully laid the side of his helmet, so as to not poke Edward with its spikes, on the lower part of his brother's abdomen.

It was stupid, it was childish, but _there. _He needed this. He just…did.

And if Alphonse could have cried—especially when he felt, much to his surprise, the gentle and shaky pressure of his brother's flesh hand on the top of his head—he would have.

"…it's okay, Al," came the wheeze, a whisper. "I don't...want to again…either."

Alphonse could only give the barest of nods, too overwhelmed to speak, even as the hand tightened on his head—emotions so vivid, so painful, but so honest, because _you're all I have._

* * *

**Don't tell me  
This is goodbye  
I  
Won't grieve  
It's not yet time  
Each breath breathed  
Is keeping hope  
Alive**

* * *

"So, Mustang. I hear you had quite the interesting day, yesterday."

A clearing of the throat. "Yes. You could say, that, sir."

"Considering the fact that you didn't get anything that was expected of you to get done—and that your men and yourself were reported several times out in town and even outside of town, running around—_and_ we have two more criminals, whose charges have yet to be seen, in jail—I think it should serve the general interest of the military if you should inform me as to what it was you were up to."

"With all due respect, General Grumman, all that happened was because of an oversight on my part. I sent a subordinate on a mission that had been faked, and it lead them into great peril. Yesterday had been spent retrieving them. The two in custody are guilty of apprehending them. That is all."

The General on the other side of the chess board nodded reluctantly. "I see. So I don't get to know the specifics?"

Mustang cracked a smirk as he moved his knight forward. "Oh, you do. Just on my report."

_Not out loud, not in person. Because I can't promise to still keep my composure at this point in time._

General Grumman nodded, smile waning. "I see, I see."

* * *

**So keep breathing  
Go on, breathe in  
Keep on breathing  
Go on, breathe in  
Just breathe**

* * *

Boots and clanking armor across a metal floor. The sound had the only two heads in the vicinity look up, attention caught by the sight of the golden haired boy and his brother walking _right towards them, _silent, but eyes hooded with a deep emotion.

And while the woman cowered at the sight of them, large dark eyes afraid, the man with the glasses—her old boss—in the cell across from hers, laughed.

"So they found you!" he declared, eyes wild and so, so _angry. _"Oh, how I _despise _that Colonel. Tell me, Edward, how long did it take?"

The boy shrugged, red-clad shoulders shoved up and then down as they came to a stop in front of his cell. "Apparently not long enough. I'm still walking, ain't I?" And there he grinned, a bright, radiant one matching his eyes and hair—and _oh _how Odi Sanguis hated _him, _too. After all this, that pride, that smile, that _fire _still remained. "So guess what? You didn't win."

_CLANG._

Odi Sanguis threw himself at the bars—but neither the boy nor the armor jumped or winced. Calmly, languidly, they watched him even as he writhed and hissed at them, "You fools! _It's not over yet! _You act like this is all—that this is the end—but it's _not_!" And now, here, too, _he _began to grin—a wide, crazy one, his breath hitching with excitement as he licked his lips. "I told the Colonel you were my most fascinating subjects yet—and it's true! I can't just let you walk out of here alive! Not until I break you—_until I break you all_! I promise you, there will be many, _many _more horrors after this one—_I am not so easily stopped_!"

His voice, having grown to a near-shouting volume, echoed throughout the prison.

But Edward merely blinked.

"…_wow."_

Turning to Alphonse briefly, both of them sharing some sort of look—what was it? What were they saying? And how could you even share a "look" with an expressionless face of metal?—Edward then glanced back at the man behind the bars, clearly unimpressed. "Don't you have anything better to do with your time? And those are some big words coming from a guy whose trial will most likely not end well for him. Do you _know _what they do to people who abduct military personnel and then try to kill them?"

Odi shook—not with fear, though. With something else. Some other, hot, unnamable feeling coursing through his veins. He wanted _revengerevengerevenge_—because this _brat_ _deserved_ anything and everything he could do if all of it was only to wipe off that stupid smile from his face. "I am aware, Fullmetal."

The grin broadened. It made him _sick, sick— _"Good! Then that means that this is goodbye. It wasn't nice knowing you, and I kind of hate your guts, but at least you're getting what you deserve. Toodles!"

And as the boy turned his back—_such a small set of shoulders for one who's carrying such a heavy burden_—Odi decided there was one last card he could, and would, play. "You don't even know _why_, do you?"

The boy froze, the armor muttered impatiently, "Brother…" as if this was the last thing he wanted to stay for and hear, but by that point Edward had already half-way turned around, glaring at him heavily. _And such a deadly glare for one so young. _"Why what?"

"Why I hurt you. Buried you. You and your brother."

That small mouth frowned, thinking. "…nope. I don't know. But I don't care, either. Knowing how crazy you are, it probably won't make sense, anyway, _so_—"

"—Family."

The word made the boy freeze again. But this time, he didn't turn around; he simply stood there, waiting, and Odi took that as his sign to continue. "After all, surely _you_, the genius child prodigy, the Fullmetal Alchemist, knows what my name means?"

And that Edward did. Odi Sanguis—old Cretian.

_To hate family. To hate blood-relations._

"The Colonel, of course, denied that you all even resemble a family. But I disagree. Perhaps not all of you are related by blood, save for you and your brother, but you surely act like you are." There was a definitive grin in the man's voice, as if he was excited to hear this, as if it would further his 'research,' as he then asked, "But what I really want to know is, do you, too, deny this claim, Edward?"

There was a pause as the boy thought, turning slowly so once again, his side was facing the criminal. He was frowning carefully, golden eyes large and focused elsewhere—possibly, probably, on a different realm entirely.

Even his previous employee was crawling forward in her cell, large, dumb, curious dark eyes watching the child as he, for some strange reason, pondered this question so deeply.

Then finally, he answered slowly, thoughtfully. Taking so much careful time to speak his words—and yet, why? What was it that was most important he was trying to get across? Trying to say perfectly, so clearly, that it could not be misunderstood?

"I once heard it said….that 'When everything goes to hell, the people who stand by you without flinching—they are your family.'"

Silence.

A long pause followed, after which Edward finally nodded and Odi could swear the armored brother was smiling without, really, even smiling. But bowing his head, golden bangs shading his face, the boy shrugged and then muttered, "I've decided not to argue with that kind of logic."

And then he left.

Simple as that.

And leaving Odi strangely mystified, and so, so insatiably _curious._

* * *

**Each breath breathed  
Means we're alive  
And  
Life means  
That we can find  
The reasons to  
Keep on getting by**

* * *

It began with something simple.

Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye entered the Colonel's office, carrying the morning's mail and more papers that he would have to read over, sign, and if necessary, make amendments to.

Everything was perfectly ordinary, down to the request for coffee, the polite talk of the weather, and the subtle flirting that always made the Lieutenant's mouth twitch even as her hand flittered toward her holster semi-threateningly.

She wouldn't shoot the Colonel, she told herself. Not really.

It was just like every other morning.

Until one thing broke that noisy morning routine—so quiet that under any other circumstance, it would have been ignorable—so easily dismissed—but after what had happened the day before yesterday—

—when Edward coughed, in the middle of lounging against Havoc's desk and talking with the Second Lieutenant, everyone froze, and Alphonse was at his shoulder, and no one else could breathe for a moment as they waited, holding their breaths, watching and unable to move until the boy's own lungs continued to work smoothly.

And when they did, the team finally relaxed, and the noise continued as the Colonel turned to his subordinate and grinned, and made another dry remark, this one concerning children and "all the heart-attacks they'd give; man, am I glad I'm not a father."

But to that, Hawkeye did not reply. She merely smiled, and shook her head.

Because some deep, impenetrable part of her sincerely disagreed.

* * *

**And if reasons we can't find  
We'll  
Make up some to get by  
'Til breath  
By  
Breath  
We'll leave this  
Behind**

**So keep breathing  
Go on, breathe in  
Keep on breathing  
Go on, breathe in  
Just breathe**

**All you  
Have to do  
Is  
Breathe**

* * *

_Fin_

* * *

**Crystal's Notes: **Oh gosh. It's complete! Good Lord! It's done! I can't believe it! Alkjdsfjsdfkdslfkjdslfjldsjf ldsjfldskjf!

…I hardly ever finish something. Please bear with me as I express my sincere excitement into my pillow pet.

SO ANYWAY.

(Whoa. It's done. I'm…still reeling from that.) Credit were credit is due must be given, I suppose. CHARACTERS are not mine; they are Hiromou Arakawa's, as I'm sure you know. She's a delightful cow, really. I admire her greatly.

(…like, dude, I really finished this.)

QUOTE where title comes from belongs to Jim Butcher; it was procured from his novel _Proven Guilty_ (which I actually have not read; but I am assuming it's a great book).

SONG LYRICS at the end belong to the song "Breathe" by Superchick, which I actually have heard, have adored, and thought it would fit rather well in the conclusion of this story (seeing as how breathing and all has become a sort-of-intentional motif throughout this piece).

(I finished a story! YES!)

THANK YOU SO SO SO SO SO SO MUCH, YOU ALL! Like, honestly. YOU guys are the real reason this story is finished. Without your reviews, your favorites, your motivations, I would have given up and raised my friend the white flag, declaring "Hiatus." But I didn't, ONLY because of you guys, my reviewers, my darling readers, whom I adore more than words can say.

And Pen-Name-Kitsune-Chan, I will admit, I never did get to somehow reference your idea. For that, I apologize. But I would like you to know that I still think of it, smile, and greatly admire your creativity, so thank you, you wonderful person, you. (heart heart)

So, now that all of my thank you's are given, 'tis finally time to draw this thing to a close…

…with the declaration of a new FMA story coming up. Honestly, if you like having Edward in awkward situations, along with a puzzling mystery and the awesome pair of Mustang and Hawkeye kicking butt, it might be worthwhile to check it out. I'm not sure yet what I will call it, as it is still in the works, but look for a new story from me soon.

As for a sequel for this story—maybe. I haven't decided yet. And I'll probably remain undecided for a while, even though its tickled my fancy. Perhaps I'll see what you guys think.

Because who knows what lies around the bend?

(I never do.)


End file.
